


between the motion and the act

by Fahye



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reality Show, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-19 22:59:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10649835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fahye/pseuds/Fahye
Summary: "They don't want it to be real," Laurent says. He touches lightly, with his fingertips, where he's written LOVE WINS. "They want us to sell them a fantasy, and they wantjustenough reality that they can pretend it might happen to them, one day."





	between the motion and the act

**Author's Note:**

> This started life as a series of ficlets on Tumblr, now sewn together to form a full story. Although it is a _Bachelor_ AU, it owes most of its backbone to the show _Unreal_. 
> 
> Title from 'The Hollow Men': _Between the idea / And the reality / Between the motion / And the act / Falls the Shadow_. This title is at least three times as pretentious as the fic below deserves, but it is at least thematically appropriate.

When Damen laces his hands together, the left thumb is on top. Laurent fixes this detail with a look that is, as it were, a warm-up for the look he's about to direct at Damen's face. Damen is perched on the edge of the plush, over-quilted, impeccably white satin bedspread, elbows resting on his spread knees. He is crushing some of the red rose petals. Laurent makes a mental note to send a production assistant in here with fresh ones before they film the individual segments after the cocktail party.

Someone knocks at the closed door and says, "Um, I think--"

" _No_ ," snarls Laurent, wasting the first and most icily searing few seconds of his expression on the door. Silence follows.

"All right, what is it?" Laurent demands of Damen. "Is it drugs? Do I need to send someone out for some cocaine? Do you have a headache? Has a soft-hearted AD whom I will summarily _fire_ snuck you your phone, and you've found out that your cat's died?"

"No," Damen says, apparently to all of the above. After a moment he adds, in a tone that Laurent can't parse, "I don't have a cat."

"Then what the fuck is wrong with you? I've seen _potato salad_ with more vivacity than you're showing out there."

"It's all so--staged," Damen says, with distaste.

Laurent manages not to roll his eyes, but the violence with which he _wishes_ he were rolling his eyes causes dull pain to gather behind them like a stormcloud.

"Don't think about that. That's my job. Your job is to wear that expensive suit, for the love of God _smile_ , and to look at all twenty of those eager young things like one of them's your future spouse. Because that is, in fact, the case. Or else what are you doing here?"

Damen's mouth sets. Laurent has a sudden, unbalancing, gut-certain feeling that he is about to be lied to, even if obliquely. It doesn't improve his mood. In fact, it ramps up his irritation even further. Damen was not supposed to be able to surprise him.

Damen says, "Because I believed what you said. That this is a great step forward for queer representation, for normalising us. To have a bisexual bachelor."

Laurent dimly recalls saying something of that sort when he was wheedling Damen through the death throes of the man's moral qualms, and even tossing in some some nonsense story about how much it would have meant to him, as a gay teen, to see two men openly courting on TV, and knowing it was more than a charming fiction: that it was real.

Nothing about what they're doing here is _real_. And Laurent would have said anything at that point if it would have persuaded Damen to sign the contract. Damen is fucking television _gold_. He's the eldest son of a rich family, the cameras love his disarming grin, the assistants in makeup are already embroiled in a vicious fight over who gets to rub his naked chest with oil during the beach episode, and he is, according to his own words, open to love.

"You said you were open to love," Laurent fires at him.

"I am," Damen says.

"Then act like it."

No response. So far, Laurent's iciest stare is not having the usual effect. Damen is meeting it with his own stare, which is dark and warm like molten chocolate; Laurent ignores the faint treacherous tingle of his stomach and makes a mental note about chocolate fountains. They should get one, for one of the dates. Lindt might be willing to sponsor it. The budget is stretched to bursting as it is; Laurent will shamelessly work whatever product placement is necessary into the script.

Laurent swallows a sigh and goes to sit next to Damen on the bed. If some hand-holding is what it takes to get this fucking cocktail party filmed before they lose the best hours of the night, Laurent will provide it. Laurent will do anything he has to do.

"Do you like any of them so far?" Laurent asks.

"I don't know," Damen says. "I only met them all six hours ago."

Another phantom-eyeroll throbs behind Laurent's temples. He says, with all the patience he has, "What about Kallias? He's very good-looking."

Damen glances at him. "They're all good-looking."

That is certainly true.

Damen adds, suddenly, "I liked Jokaste. She's funny."

Laurent bites his tongue. He likes Jokaste, too, and although he's pretending it's just because she's going to be stellar for ratings--sparkling, unapologetic two-faced bitch that she is--he also just… likes her. And he does not need to hear that his bachelor likes the one suitor in the mix who reminds Laurent of himself.

"Good," he says. "I'm so glad. She's all dressed up, and so are the others, and they're all waiting for you outside. Probably hungry by now, too. Can't you do them the courtesy of showing up so they can enjoy the evening?"

That hits home. Damen might be a stubborn, uncultured piece of muscle wrapped in Zegna, but there's a certain core to him that can only be described as _gentlemanly_. It's what made Laurent work so hard to talk him onto the show in the first place.

Laurent takes a calculated chance on some honesty and adds, "And we can sit here for as long as you need, but there's a cold front coming in from the east, and all the girls are in sleeveless dresses. Goosebumps and chattering teeth don't make for good TV."

"Right," Damen says. "It's your job to think of these things."

"Yes," says Laurent.

Damen's next exhale is almost a laugh. He hoists himself to his feet and spreads his hands slightly, a gesture of silent readiness.

Laurent taps his headset and orders makeup to get ready for touch-ups on the bachelor, and for production to start herding the suitors into position.

* * *

"Hey," Nicaise says. "The idiot is kicking up a fuss. You need to come deal with it."

Laurent looks away from the bank of screens where he's been playing around with footage from the previous day. They've got almost a full minute's worth of Kashel's boob slipping out of her halter dress; Laurent knows what he's doing when it comes to cutting together soft-core wardrobe malfunctions, but he'll still get someone more heterosexual to look it over later.

"Which--" he starts, but Nicaise is already adding, "The _main_ idiot. Your precious bachelor."

"What is there to fuss about? He watches the games, he makes cute faces when they bring him the stuffed animals they won, and he goes on a group dinner date with the winning team. End of story."

Nicaise says, "Yeah, whatever. He's being difficult."

Anyone else taking this snippy tone with Laurent would have been kicked to the curb without a reference by now, but Nicaise doesn't really _have_ any other tones, and he and Laurent know each other well enough that Laurent allows it. Laurent allows a lot of things where Nicaise is concerned.

He still says, "What, you can't handle one petulant millionaire?"

Nicaise juts out his lip. "I tried," he says. "He keeps going on about _perpetuating stereotypes_ and _biphobia_."

"Jesus fucking Christ," says Laurent, snatches up his coffee cup, and storms out of the tent.

When he reaches the set, Laurent ignores the flashing lights and grating warble of the carnival trailers, and zeroes in on the knot of worried-looking assistants. At the centre of the knot is Aimeric, who seems to be trying to coax sense into Damen. Damen has his arms crossed over his chest. A white T-shirt--at least a size too small, courtesy of someone in wardrobe who deserves a raise--is straining around his biceps and showing off the tanned skin of his neck.

"All right," Laurent says. "Someone is now going to explain to me why these cameras are standing around like expensive pieces of techno-art instead of _shooting my show_."

Damen says, "Aimeric told me--"

"What? What did you say to him?" Laurent demands of Aimeric.

"Nothing!" Aimeric protests.

"It's not his fault," Damen says, angling his body as though to protect Aimeric. "We were just talking. Is it true that the teams for the carnival games are going to be men versus women?"

Laurent takes a sip of his coffee, for strength. It's cold. He motions with the cup to the nearest PA, makes the universal cup-jiggling signal for _get me more of this_ , and then says, "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because gender essentialism, unfortunately, sells!" Laurent snaps.

Damen looks a bit taken aback, as though the words _gender essentialism_ have landed on his face like a wet flannel.

"Oh, yes," Laurent says sweetly, chasing the advantage. "I can talk that talk. I have already _had_ the discussion about whether this whole format plays into assumptions about polyamory and infidelity and slutty bisexuals." He curls his tongue viciously around _slutty_ and sees, out of the corner of his eye, a good third of the crew wince and busy themselves with their equipment. They can pick when Laurent's anger is like a hot, buoyant balloon inside him.

"It's not just that," Damen says, not flinching. "It's that the more you pit the women and the men against each other, the more it looks like--well, whichever ‘side' I pick, in the end, that's my real sexuality. That's not representation. You're erasing who I am."

The eyes and ears of the entire crew, a small group of wide-eyed suitors, and most of the production team, are upon them. Laurent can't afford spot fires like this. He can't afford to look weak, not even for a moment.

"And I will erase you from this fucking show if you don't stop disrupting my shooting schedule," Laurent says, with all the cold authority he can muster. "You signed a contract, Damianos. I _own_ you for the next three months. You will do as you're told."

Damen looks around them at the studiously avoidant crew; anyone who's worked with Laurent knows that making eye contact with their producer at a time like this is asking to be eviscerated. Damen looks at Aimeric, whose expression is still half-frightened and half-flummoxed that this is happening at all. Finally Damen's look comes back to Laurent, where it settles into flat dislike.

That's fine. Laurent doesn't care. Damen doesn't have to like him; he just has to obey him.

"Is it going to be like that for every contest you have planned?" Damen asks.

Laurent almost says _yes_ just to be contrary. But that won't get them anywhere. And it's not true.

"No," he says.

A few moments stretch between them.

"All right," Damen says, at last. "Let's get on with it."

* * *

"Lazar, you follow Erasmus," Laurent mutters into his headset. "Jord, stay on Jokaste."

"Got it," says Jord.

The bells on Jokaste's anklet tinkle smugly beneath her skirt as she makes her way to the breakfast island in the kitchen and arranges herself on a stool as though it's a throne. Her red nails shine against the apple she plucks from the fruit bowl.

The female suitor whom Laurent has already labelled Redhead Two, refusing to learn her proper name on the basis that she's not going to make it past the first month, scurries up to Jokaste with a look of schadenfreude that she's not smart enough to hide from the cameras.

"I can't believe he actually did it," Redhead Two says.

Jokaste smiles and takes a bite of the apple, somehow managing to look both predatory and dainty. She chews, swallows, and says, "I didn't think the silly boy would take me _seriously_. How _embarrassing_."

Laurent is impressed. The woman could do disingenuity at the Olympic level.

A few minutes ago, Jokaste and her sweet, sharp voice managed to convince Erasmus that Damen had said he admired people who were creative and not afraid to show it. She egged the boy on until he shyly approached Damen and offered to _dance_ for him; Erasmus only managed to get thirty seconds into his performance before the laughter from the other suitors reached his ears, at which point he turned a shade of red that clashed terribly with his honey-blond hair, and dashed out of the room with tears already forming in his eyes.

Laurent leaves Jord to catalogue whatever drama Jokaste is constructing now, and goes out through the French doors to the steps leading down to the poolside. He can see the bright red of Lazar's shirt at the far end of the pool. The suitors are denied access to their bedrooms during most of the day and there are, by design, limited places to find privacy on set. Erasmus has taken refuge on a lounge chair, as far away from the house as possible, and is sitting hunched over with his head in his hands.

Laurent's phone buzzes silently in his pocket. He takes a deep breath when he sees the name on the screen.

He directs the call to his headset, and exhales.

"Hello, uncle."

"We haven't spoken in over a week, Laurent."

Sometimes, with the physical distance, Laurent can even manage to forget. But every phone call reminds him that his uncle's shadow has long fingers and can fall on Laurent no matter where he is. Which is why his uncle does it, of course.

"I have been," Laurent says, "somewhat busy."

"Now, now, there's no need to get defensive." His uncle's voice is smooth. "It's not that I'm _concerned_. You know I placed a lot of trust in you, handing you the reins of that show. But you can be honest with me, if you're struggling. There's no shame in needing a strong guiding hand, at your age. Perhaps I should come and visit the set? Provide you with moral support?"

Laurent digs a thumbnail into the palm of his hand. He closes his eyes and becomes a solid shape, reforming around the pain. It helps.

When he opens his eyes, he sees Damen being followed by two eager cameras as he goes to join Erasmus, sitting next to him on the lounge chair. Erasmus lifts his head from his hands, and even at this distance Laurent can see a new wave of humiliation wash over his face, but Damen doesn't seem to notice. Damen leans back on his hands, easy, and seems to be making conversation.

"Thank you, that's not necessary," Laurent says. "Things are… tolerable."

"Tolerable." His uncle's laugh jabs at his ear. "No need to be modest, Laurent. Your little experiment must be succeeding admirably. If you'd told me everything was wonderful, I'd think you were covering up, for fear of _disappointing_ me. But understatement is more your style, isn't it?"

Last year, Laurent thinks, that would have been true. But Laurent spends his days recording what people think are their authentic selves, and then spends his nights moving their words around in order to create something entirely different. Everyone has their style. Their patterns. Laurent would be a poor excuse for a producer if he couldn't spot his own.

He could play this another way, and allow himself to be underestimated. But he'd rather have his uncle worried. He can have all of Laurent's worry, in fact. Laurent would like to cram it down his throat until he chokes on it.

Erasmus is wiping his face on the back of his hand. Damen says something to him; Erasmus breaks into a shaky laugh and darts a look up at Damen like Damen is the first and last man in all the world. Damen smiles down at him and says something else, and Erasmus nods.

"You're right, uncle," Laurent says. "It's all going very well."

* * *

"If I tell Jokaste she's going home, on camera, you can't stop me."

There's nobody else in the production tent. Laurent has finally released the rest of the crew to craft services, where they're probably cramming down pasta and cold sausage rolls, after eleven hours straight of shooting. The suitors are in their rooms, grabbing the nine hours of sleep that their contracts allow them. Damen is meant to be in _his_ room, the one with the white quilted bedspread.

Damen is not in his room.

Laurent looks over his shoulder at Damen for a while, wondering if he misheard. The words were stubborn enough. But Laurent has been around this industry for long enough to recognise the opening volley in a bargaining match when he hears one.

"That's true," he says. He doesn't move. Damen weaves between tables and shoved-back folding chairs, and comes to look down at Laurent where Laurent is sitting in front of the editing screens. The screens are empty, a blank and famished grey-black, showing only a dull reflection of Laurent's hair.

"But you'll find some way to make my life miserable," Damen says. "And not just me, either."

"So there _are_ some brains in there, alongside all the protein shakes," Laurent says.

"You saw what Jokaste did this morning."

Laurent shifts his chair so that he's facing Damen directly. He rests his arms on the thin metal arms of the chair, crosses one leg over the other, and leans back. "And?"

"I want you to keep her away from Erasmus. I don't know if it was her idea, or if one of your people put her up to it, but… don't make him go through something like that again. It wasn't even the first time, apparently. Ancel tried to get him drunk at the cocktail party. Told him I'd definitely notice him if he _threw_ himself at me."

Ancel, Laurent recalls, is Redhead One. He was one of those snickering the loudest at Erasmus's dance, but was smart enough not to make himself visible in the aftermath.

"I can't control what the suitors do," Laurent says.

Damen gives him a flat look. _Bull-fucking-shit_ , this look says; Laurent is, absurdly, pleased.

Laurent says, "And in return?"

Damen's hands clench into brief fists at his sides, then ease. Laurent watches the effortful straightening of Damen's broad fingers and feels something that is either triumph or arousal, or perhaps the broad watercolour space where those two things bleed into one another.

"You get me," Damen says shortly. "I'll do what you want. Whatever ridiculous outfits or humiliating activities you have planned, I'll do them. No more arguments. And I'll let Jokaste stay, at least for a while. That's the deal."

Laurent leans his cheek on one hand and lets the silence stretch, tight, and then even tighter. He enjoys the way Damen's fingers twitch.

"You haven't seen some of these outfits," he says.

Damen says, low and annoyed, " _Laurent_ ," and a wild sensation takes hold of Laurent's spine. It's definitely not triumph, this time.

"Get some sleep," he says, and flaps his hand in dismissal. "Yes. To the deal. Now go away."

Damen leaves, and Laurent stands, suddenly needing to be moving. He picks up a whiteboard marker and taps it against his chin, letting his mind skip ahead.

So: Erasmus is the front-runner. Laurent had assumed, going in, that the last male suitor standing--possibly even the winner--would most likely be Kallias. Kallias exudes a photogenic kind of flirtation, sexy without being obvious, and as a freshly graduated law student he's also prime power-couple material for a corporate scion like Damen.

Erasmus was one of the last picks, despite being absurdly pretty and also a _paediatric nurse_ , of all the ludicrous things, because his screen tests were hesitant bordering on colourless. Laurent didn't have much hope of him plucking up enough personality to interact with the bachelor at all.

But there it is. Circumstances change. Laurent can adapt.

In fact, he can already see the narrative unfolding: the sweet young man versus the stunning, vindictive woman. The bachelor himself seemingly blind to Jokaste's two-faced nature. The audience baying for her blood by the finale, and cheering when Damen chooses Erasmus in the end.

And a nice little victory for gay rights, or whatever the fuck it is that Damen wants.

"Wow," Nicaise says, from behind him.

Laurent steps back from the whiteboard where he's rapidly storyboarded the entire season, from where they are all the way to the end.

"It's a start."

"Shut up. It's good," Nicaise says.

It is. And it's going to be even better because the audience will think that it's happening organically. That life serves up happiness, spontaneous and uncomplicated, to those who deserve it. That it's _real._

"They don't want it to be real," Laurent says. He touches lightly, with his fingertips, where he's written LOVE WINS. "They want us to sell them a fantasy, and they want _just_ enough reality that they can pretend it might happen to them, one day."

Nicaise gives a parched-dry laugh. When Laurent turns around, Nicaise is sitting on the edge of a table, running a hand through his dark curls, the end of his laugh having been swallowed by a yawn. He meets Laurent's eyes for a mocking moment and then looks back at the board.

Nicaise says, "You think you can pull it off?"

"Of course," Laurent says.

He ignores the itchy disappointment lining his ribcage. It's--it's no more than _irritating_ , the idea that demure, wide-eyed, transparently adoring Erasmus is apparently what Damen wants in a partner. That Damen will be happy to slide a ring onto Erasmus's finger as they share the romantic sunset kiss of the finale.

It's a good visual; a good story. Laurent's job is to sell it. That's all.

* * *

Damen is as good as his word. He behaves. He's friendly and noble and straightforward and, somehow, manages to make it seem natural that he should be fond of so many people at once. He speaks earnestly into the camera about the good points of every single suitor, and never oversells it. He doesn't show a marked preference for Erasmus over the others. Laurent barely has to edit Damen's scenes for narrative tension at all.

By the time something goes wrong, Laurent has been bracing himself for almost two weeks for something to go wrong, because luck never lasts in television.

The twenty suitors have been winnowed down to twelve. They've decamped for a couple of days to a tiny private beach north of the city, the owner of which owes Laurent a favour, and the shooting schedule is full of bikinis, beach volleyball, romantic walks, and hopefully fewer jellyfish-sting disasters than last year, ie. _none._

To kick things off, they have a bonfire party. Laurent has offered three hundred dollars to any producer who gets a suitor to suggest skinny-dipping; it was going to be two hundred, but the temperature's dropped unseasonably low, and the wind sweeping in off the sea has a bite to it.

Laurent is watching Damen have a conversation about superheroes with a gaggle of suitors--all of them gamely clutching drinks and none of them wanting to leave in case they end up missing a chance for Alone Time--when Orlant comes to tell him that all of the previous day's footage has vanished.

" _Vanished?_ " Laurent says.

The conversation stutters. Everyone nearby looks in their direction.

Orlant shifts his weight to his other foot, but doesn't drop his eyes. "Been deleted," he says. "Or overwritten. I can't work it out, it makes no _sense_ , I--"

"Who was the last person working on edits?"

Laurent already knows the answer. He's listening for the length of the pause before Orlant says, "I was."

"We have automatic backups," Laurent says.

Orlant licked his lips. "I don't know what--they failed. I _swear_ , I didn't do anything different--"

"Be quiet," Laurent says.

Thousands of dollars' worth of footage, and key emotional beats that they will never be able to replicate, no matter how sneakily they edit around them. All gone. Laurent can just imagine the phone call he'll be getting when news of this inevitably makes its way to his uncle. Half of it will be about how Laurent let it happen in the first place; the other half will be about how he handles it now.

No weaknesses, Laurent thinks.

"Hand in your ID," he says aloud. "And don't bother coming back in tomorrow. This is on you."

Orlant draws in a sharp breath. The look of naked betrayal only lasts a moment on his face before sliding into one of resignation. He knows Laurent. He was expecting this.

 _He told you anyway_ , part of Laurent notes.

Laurent raises his voice above the murmurs now running through both cast and crew. "Would anyone like to register a complaint?"

No one would.

Laurent folds up his frustration and stores it in his chest. There's nothing else he can do about it tonight. He directs Jord to get a few more shots of laughing, drinking, fire-lit suitors, and walks deliberately towards the drinks table, where he acquires a glass of whatever bottom-shelf whiskey was within budget, downs half of it, and takes the other half for a walk. He doesn't go far, just far enough to be out of sight. A small grass-scattered dune hunches up into the night, partly lit by one of the smaller floodlights. Laurent sits down and looks out to sea.

Waves break in murmurs in the darkness, and Laurent finally lets his shoulders hunch, curling himself around the throb of anger, refusing to let it become anything else. He rubs a hand over his face.

" _Damn_ it," he says, soft.

He hears the heavy footsteps coming up the dune behind him only a moment before Damen says, "Is this where the serious drinking happens?"

"You're supposed to be in front of a camera," Laurent says.

Damen sits down next to him, with a sweating bottle of beer in his hands, and says, "Yeah, probably," and Laurent has a split-second battle with himself, which he loses. He exhales, slow, and doesn't say anything else.

"I can't work you out," Damen says then. "I thought you enjoyed it. The snapping, the swearing, everyone having to leap to your word. But--you're not that person at heart, are you?"

"I don't have a heart," Laurent says, automatic.

Damen sounds like he might be smiling. "Right."

Damen drinks for a while. Laurent is silent. Halfway down the bottle Damen says, "Do you know why I agreed to do this show?"

"I thought it was to inspire hope in the souls of baby bisexuals everywhere."

"Obviously," Damen agrees. "But there's more to it. My father…" He clears his throat. "My father's retiring, and he hasn't decided what he's doing when it comes to control of the company. He says he's afraid I'm not responsible enough, I don't care enough about the family's image. Kastor took me out on my last birthday and I--" Damen makes a face "--made a fool of myself at a club. I got arrested for assault. The charges were dropped, but the damage was done. When you approached me about doing the show, my father found out about it. He decided this was the perfect opportunity for me to clean up my act. With a little bit of public humiliation thrown in."

"I didn't know about any of that," Laurent says, with a spark of fury. He should have known _everything_. He remembers Damen's polite, laughing dismissal as he took Laurent's card; he remembers Damen calling him the next morning and saying he was thinking about it after all.

"I should hope not," Damen says dryly. "My father paid enough for the story to be buried. Anyway. This is my last chance: be likeable, be a romantic hero, prove I can attract good PR. Or else control of the company goes to Kastor."

Pure curiosity drives Laurent to ask, "Why did you assault someone?"

"It was some asshole harassing a girl in the club," Damen says. "He wouldn't take no for an answer, and told me to mind my own business when I asked him to leave her alone, so." He shrugs. "I hit him. Twice."

"Oh, God," Laurent says. "You really _are_ a romantic hero, aren't you?"

Damen laughs, warm and rich from the depths of his chest.

Laurent drinks the rest of his whiskey all at once. Ice clicks against his teeth. Fuck it.

"My uncle's the head of the network," he says. He keeps his eyes on the shifting lines of the surf, faint white shapes appearing and disappearing against the black. "He's the one who put the show in my hands this year. Or did you think there were many twenty-one-year-old producers in this business?"

"You're _twenty-one_?"

Now Laurent looks at Damen. He lets the pause dangle for a vindictive moment in which, fascinatingly, a flush creeps into Damen's cheeks.

"I know," Laurent says. "All that snapping and swearing has aged me."

"No!" Damen says. "I believe it. I mean, you look it. But this is television. I guess I assumed…"

"I was getting Botox? Using thousand-dollar creams made with crushed diamonds?"

"Bathing in the blood of production assistants," Damen says, deadpan, and Laurent has to lift a hand to his mouth to hide the shape of it.

Laurent says. "The ratings have been terrible over the past two seasons. The show's a sinking ship. My uncle gave it to me in order to watch me fail." Laurent turns the glass up, chasing the last few drops of vaguely whiskey-scented water. "I'm going to drag it back up again. No matter what."

"Is he homophobic, your uncle?"

Laurent chokes on his melted ice. He coughs for a good ten seconds before he can manage, "What?"

Damen shrugs. "I wondered if you picked someone like me because you knew it would piss him off. It seems like something you might do."

It is something Laurent might do.

"No," he says, forcing himself to sound light. "Your sexuality is all about the ratings, I'm afraid."

There's still laughter in the creases of Damen's eyes, and the cool touch of the floodlight on his face brings up devastating new shadows. His profile reminds Laurent of classic statues, classic Hollywood. Damen absently sucks a spilled drop of beer from his wrist. Laurent's blood seems to be forging new roads in his body.

Laurent seldom drinks, and never in company. A double whiskey is enough for him to feel untethered. Out of focus. He wishes he'd never brought up his uncle at all.

He says, before he can think better of it, "I can do good things for your image. If you'll trust me."

"I thought you needed to make sensational television."

"I can do both at once," Laurent says. "I'm--talented."

The word catches in the back of his throat like bile. His uncle's shadow again. _You're very talented, Laurent._

"An alliance," Damen says. He holds out his empty beer bottle and touches it to Laurent's equally empty glass. "We both get what we want."

Laurent nods.

After a moment, Damen says, "Do you want me to go?"

The beach is wide and cold. The night stretches away on either side of them, and up, up, impossibly up to the stars. Laurent's skin feels both loose and tight, like ill-fitting clothes. Vertigo swirls in his head. He rubs the soles of his feet against the sand, forcing himself to feel the tiny scrapes. He rolls a piece of dry, stubborn dune-grass between his fingers. This is where he is. This is what he's doing.

"No," he says.

Damen doesn't. Damen stretches out on the sand beside him, gazing upwards. Laurent doesn't look at him, but he can hear the slow, regular sound of his breath.

* * *

"Psh." Halvik makes a dismissive sound. "Look at that. A waste."

Laurent would stab himself rather than admit it, but he's always been a tad intimidated by Halvik. She's been a contentedly mid-level producer for as long as Laurent has been alive, and while never actually pushing back against his authority, she always gives the impression that she's humouring him because she finds him amusing.

Laurent follows her gaze to where Damen, Kallias and Erasmus are talking, ankle-deep in the surf.

"A waste?" he says.

"Of good genetic material." Halvik heaves a sigh. "That boy shouldn't be throwing himself away on _more boys_. Look at my girl Kashel. Wouldn't they have attractive children?"

Laurent glances up into Halvik's eyes, which are solemn beneath thick and perfectly groomed brows. He is at least seventy percent sure he's being teased, and that if he says anything cutting about heterosexuals she will laugh at him.

He looks at Kashel, then back at Damen. Kashel is black-haired and curvy, with a wide smile; Laurent supposes that she's pretty, if you're into that kind of thing.

"Yes," he says instead, because it's not like Halvik is wrong.

Halvik laughs anyway, claps him on the shoulder, and wanders off, probably to tweak Kashel's sarong skirt into a more precarious angle on her hips.

Laurent lowers himself into a folding chair that's been set up under the world's largest beach umbrella. He's barely had time to crack open a bottle of coconut water, and to realise that he hasn't eaten anything for six hours, when Jokaste wanders up. She's wearing a wide-brimmed hat as well as her blue-and-white bikini, and she makes a beeline for the industrial-sized bottle of sunscreen on the crew table.

"Got to look after the merchandise," she says, ignoring Laurent's disinviting glare and pumping out a generous handful of sunscreen. "What do you think? Too much skin?"

Laurent opens his mouth to tell her that if she really wants to flaunt the network decency guidelines, she could probably tug the tiny triangles of fabric a little lower on her breasts. He doesn't get there.

"Only _Aimeric_ came up to me and Kyrina," Jokaste goes on, now rubbing thoughtfully at thick white streaks from wrist to shoulder, "and hinted that all the women should refuse to step in front of the camera until you let us wear board shorts or one-piece bathers. In the name of feminism. He said that our righteous activist of a bachelor likes that kind of thing, and might _respect_ us for it."

"And what did you think?" Laurent says, keeping his voice even.

Jokaste slides him a smile, almost too fast to see. "Seemed to me," she says, "he was just a bit too keen for us to make a fuss. And maybe you'd be interested to know that I saw him fiddling with things in the production tent two nights ago? An hour or so before you fired what's-his-name?"

Something jars in Laurent's chest. "What the hell were you doing near the production tent?"

"Looking for Pallas."

Laurent looks at her sharply. Jokaste laughs.

" _God_ , no," she says. "I've got better taste than that. He has a crush on one of your cameramen. Didn't you know? I thought they might do something--silly."

"So you went looking for them. Out of the goodness of your heart."

"I wanted to warn them not to court trouble," Jokaste says, sweet as honey.

Laurent translates that as: she was hoping to catch them in the act and twist it to her own ends.

Damen has described Pallas during his individual segments as _a great friend_ , which in the mouth of most bachelors would be the damning _someone I don't want to fuck_. Damen, being Damen, manages to sound sincere. Outside the bounds of their bargain, Damen is allowed to keep or send home whomever he wants. Laurent supposes there are worse things than making friends along the way, odd as the concept sounds.

"And you saw Aimeric doing… what?"

"I don't know what I saw," Jokaste says. "He was watching clips, and doing something on the computer. I thought that was his job."

Laurent thinks about Aimeric at the start of the show, innocently talking to Damen about bisexual stereotypes. Still, he airs his last suspicion. "You could be lying. Stirring up shit of your own."

"That does sound like me, doesn't it?" Jokaste says. She's looking out to sea, not at Laurent, and her face is perfectly vacant when she says, "Look, I know what I'm doing here. You need a villain. I'm perfect. And I'm bringing this Aimeric bullshit to you--" now rubbing sunscreen into the pale column of her throat "--because I don't appreciate _anyone_ trying to sabotage my vehicle for fame."

A piece clicks satisfyingly into place in Laurent's mind. "What are you aiming for?" he asks. "Modelling? Acting? Hosting your own show?"

"Whatever I can get," Jokaste says. "But I'm going to be _known_. The longer I stay on this show, the more people will see me and know my name." She adds, offhand, "I like him, though. Damen. Under other circumstances I might be playing for the prize."

"Other circumstances?"

Jokaste rubs the last of the sunscreen onto her thighs, and tosses the sleek fall of her hair over her shoulder. "I won't settle for someone who's settling for me," she says, with a confidence that Laurent can't help but envy. "I'm worth more than that. I'd snap him up in an instant if I thought I was the one he wanted."

"Not even your acting skills could make you anything like Erasmus," Laurent says.

Jokaste, turning away, pauses and looks down at Laurent. One of her sharp, expertly-pencilled eyebrows rises.

"Sure," she says. "Erasmus."

* * *

Laurent isn't stupid enough to take someone like Jokaste entirely at her word. He sends Nicaise to talk to Kyrina, for corroboration, and doesn't act immediately. For a few days he considers his options; there are benefits to knowing something that the person playing on the other side of the board isn't aware of you knowing. There are ways to use a pawn against its master.

In the end, he decides to deal with it directly. To minimise the damage and move on.

They're filming at the house again. The eight remaining suitors are proving their domestic skills in what Laurent expected Damen to declaim as a celebration of archaic gender roles. However, it turns out that Damen has no objections given that four of them are male, and even Damen might be willing to let his taste buds override his conscience when it comes to chocolate cake.

Some of Halvik's eclectic experience was on a cooking show, back in the nineties, so Laurent lets her handle most of the actual baking segments. When Laurent strides onto the set, Halvik has disappeared and Aimeric is overseeing the aftermath, which largely consists of Damen eating cupcakes while the suitors ‘accidentally' get icing on their fingers and try to lick it off in Damen's line of sight.

"Stop," Laurent commands.

Filming grinds to a halt. Laurent directs his gaze pointedly to the huddle of giggles in the corner of the kitchen nearest the pantry; Kallias looks up from where he is, apparently, sifting icing sugar into Erasmus's hair. Erasmus is flushed with laughter.

"Aimeric," Laurent says, into the expectant silence. "You're fired."

"Wh-what?" Aimeric stammers.

"Don't bother," Laurent says. "What did my uncle promise you, to throw these little spanners in the works? Lead producer role on the show, when I'm gone?"

Aimeric's incredulous expression doesn't budge. Beneath it, he flushes.

Laurent smiles. It feels cold on his face and the coldness of it is a sharp pleasure, like holding frozen peas against a bruise.

"You couldn't produce a fart in a bag, you pathetic, talentless upstart," he says. "You couldn't even get _this_ job without sucking someone's dick. And he probably wasn't the first, was he? There are plenty of people in this business willing to tell a pretty face and a smart mouth that they've got _talent_ and _potential_ , that they're _going places_."

Aimeric is turning progressively more red.

Laurent lowers his voice and leans in. "You're going nowhere," he says, pleasant. "Maybe you're a half-decent fuck, but now my uncle will know you're good for nothing more than that."

That does it. Aimeric's face implodes into a snarl. "You'll never make it!" he hurls at Laurent. "He knows what you're trying to do! _You're_ the one who'll be nothing."

"That's nice," Laurent says. "Now get the fuck off my set."

"What?"

"Did you not hear me?" Laurent says coolly. "You're fired."

"You can't fire me!"

Laurent raises his eyebrows. "I think you'll find I can."

A tinge of uncertainty enters Aimeric's tone for the first time. "He said--he's the head of the network! You can't fire me if he says to keep me on!"

"Is that what you think will happen?" It's Nicaise. Colour is high in his cheeks as he steps forward and confronts Aimeric. "You think you'll run to him and explain that you've _failed_ , that Laurent knows what you've been trying to do, and he'll pat you on the head and drive you back here tomorrow morning in his big, _shiny_ SUV with that conveniently _roomy_ back seat--"

"Nicaise," says Laurent.

Nicaise shuts his mouth. He sends Laurent a single incoherent look, and then stalks away.

Laurent says, very even and to nobody in particular, "If one word of any of this leaves this room, if a _breath_ of a _hint_ of it floats anywhere near a reporter, I will personally destroy the responsible party. I will take your life apart. Slowly. And then I will set the fucking pieces alight."

He glances back at Aimeric, who looks shaken.

Laurent says, "Go on, then. If he wants you to keep this job, or any job, you're right. I can't stop him. If that's what he wants, you can come back here tomorrow." He hardens his voice. "But I will bet you all the money I have that we won't ever see you around here again."

He motions to the security guards now hovering nearby, and lifts his phone to his ear.

"Are you calling him?" Aimeric says. The uncertainty is layered all through his voice now. "Why would you--"

"I'm calling Orlant," Laurent says. And then, to the approaching security guards: "Escort this piece of shit off the set. Now."

Aimeric scowls, pulls his lanyard over his head and drops it on a chair, shakes off the guards' hands, and walks away. The guards follow. Laurent listens to the trill of the phone and doesn't watch him go.

* * *

Laurent learned his lesson from the whiskey when they were at the beach. It doesn't help to drink when he feels like this: detached, and on edge, and like anyone who comes within reach will be taken between his teeth and shredded. He takes dinner to his trailer, but his appetite is non-existent. A plate of shepherd's pie goes cold on the table while he lies on his bed and tries to forget the look on Aimeric's face as confidence dissolved into the first stirrings of fear that everything he'd been promised might disappear. That what seemed like loyalty, even affection, was just as false as everything else in this industry.

There's a knock on the door of Laurent's trailer, and when he calls, "What?" the door opens without further ado.

"Can I come in?" says Damen, who has already come in.

"No," says Laurent.

Unsurprisingly, this fails to work. Laurent knows by now there is no point telling Damen to stay in his room in the house like a good little bachelor. Damen behaves when the camera is pointed at him, and Laurent's instincts have stopped him from pushing it further than that.

Damen comes and sits on the corner-seat, crammed in opposite the low bed. There is barely enough room for his legs in the space between.

Laurent has a high tolerance for silence. He turns his head on the pillow and looks at Damen, waiting. Damen looks back at him for a while. The texture of the silence changes. Laurent's mouth feels dry and his knees are restless.

"So," Damen says eventually. "Aimeric."

"This may come as a surprise," Laurent says, "but I am not required to run my personnel decisions past you."

"I'm not here to talk you out of firing him," says Damen.

"No?"

"No. But-- _that_ , I think you did enjoy," Damen says. He doesn't sound accusing. He sounds like he's trying to work something out.

"You'll notice I managed to refrain from assaulting him," Laurent says.

Damen blinks, then grins at him. "No you didn't," he says. "You just didn't use your fists."

"Not all of us take the Neanderthal approach," says Laurent.

Damen says, "Is Nicaise all right?"

Laurent checked in with Nicaise before Nicaise left the set. Predictably, Nicaise snapped that he didn't need to be babied, but he bumped his shoulder against Laurent's for a moment before climbing into his car.

It's ridiculous that Damen's need to protect, to be there for people, extends even to Nicaise, who once called him _a fuckwit sundae with a man-bun on top_. To his face.

And Damen's purpose in the trailer now, Laurent realises, is to _be there_ for Laurent.

Laurent waits for his horror at this fact to rise. It's only when heat starts to gather behind his eyes that he realises the horror is no more than a thin, frothing wavecap on a swell of bewildering gratitude. The swell builds and builds and brings with it the heaviness of everything that Laurent carries with him, is _used_ to carrying with him, every small battle and large betrayal that he's swallowed down and folded tight, kept hidden, because the alternative is wearing the damage where it can be seen.

He is sure that Damen can be trusted with this. His own certainty is what shakes him the most.

"My uncle does this," Laurent says. Once that part's out, the rest comes more easily. "He fucks men--boys--desperate to break into the business. He promises them a career. The world."

Laurent doesn't know if he likes Damen more, or less, for the long, long moment it takes before this sinks fully in and his expression changes.

"Nicaise?" Damen says.

Laurent nods. "My uncle got bored of him, kicked him out with no warning, and threatened to have him blacklisted if he told anyone. And he could do it. The industry's not that large, in Australia, and he's a respected name. So I hired Nicaise myself. I felt--responsible for him."

"Responsible? How is it your fault what your uncle does?"

Laurent twists a hand around his own wrist, and doesn't answer. Unbidden and sharp, the thought swims up through his anger: _if you helped Nicaise, why not Aimeric? Where does that responsibility end?_

Damen climbs down off the seat onto the thin carpet of the trailer, so that he can reach out and put a hand on Laurent's arm. The touch is a shock. Undemanding, but undeniable, like thumbnail on palm, anchoring Laurent to his body.

"Laurent. What is it that you want?"

Laurent says, true and difficult: "I want to be free of him."

He's on the downhill slope now. It's not so hard to keep going, to explain that his parents and brother all died by the time Laurent was thirteen, that he grew up on his uncle's sets, indulged and monitored and trapped. That he always wanted to work in television but didn't realise nobody would take him seriously until it was too late: after so many years in his uncle's shadow, any of Laurent's achievements were put down to nepotism. That it took him far too long to realise his uncle was encouraging that narrative and undermining Laurent at every turn.

"It felt like--like he believed in me, at the time," Laurent says. He hasn't looked at Damen since he began speaking. He could be talking to nothing, talking to himself, but for the part of him still acutely aware of Damen's skin against his. "But I'm too young to be where I am. It looks bad. If he'd let me work my way up slowly…"

"You'd have been bored to death," Damen says.

Laurent looks at him. Damen's smile is faint and warm.

"Yes, I expect so," Laurent says.

"Why…"

"What?" Laurent says, when Damen doesn't finish.

Damen says, with the reluctance of a man afraid to shatter a spell, "Why are you telling me all of this?"

"I," Laurent says, and stops.

Because you know that if you tell anyone else, I'll ruin you. Because I'm partly convinced I've made you up, and I can say whatever I want, if this isn't real.

He says, "You asked," dry as dust.

Damen is either prepared to accept that or doesn't know how to ask the next question. He nods. He takes his hand away from Laurent's arm, but settles himself more comfortably, cross-legged on the floor.

Laurent goes on, "I want my own production company. I've met with some investors, and some people from another network. Everyone likes my pitch, but they won't _commit_ until they think I'm a safe bet--that I'm more than just another spoiled brat with connections. All I've got, to prove myself on, is this show. That's why it has to succeed."

"What kind of television would you make?" Damen asks.

Laurent levels a look at him. "Guess."

Damen's mouth twitches. He looks down the narrow length of Laurent's trailer, which is all faux-wood and brushed steel. Clean lines. Nearly everything shut away, out of sight. Laurent imagines trying to read someone's personality on the basis of two tins of loose tea, a laptop attached to portable speakers, and a tall uneven stack of books. The odd urge to speak out in defence of his own complexity leaps into his mouth, and he bites it savagely back.

"Documentaries," Damen says.

Laurent's chest floods with something hot and painful and new.

"Close," he says. "Travel. But not pure tourism fluff. I want to go properly in depth for each destination. Food, history, architecture. _I can do it_. I'm good at research; I'm good at attracting sponsors. Half the crew here will follow me."

"But it comes down to someone giving you the chance," Damen says.

* * *

Through group dates, individual dates, competitions, parties, product placement and public meltdowns, the show continues. Laurent has been sure of the finalists since soon after the start of filming, but he manages to weave in enough red herrings and emotional tripwires to keep a viewing audience engaged. Even Kallias looks genuinely shocked when he beats out Pallas for a spot in the last four.

Pallas looks up at Damen, rueful, and accepts Damen's hug goodbye. They both look sleek and strong and masculine in their suits.

"So," Nicaise murmurs, "d'you think Lazar--"

"Don't tell me," Laurent says, "and I won't have to fire anyone."

"Ugh, you're going soft," Nicaise says.

The other finalists are less surprising. Erasmus has been unfurling with happiness like a literal fucking flower as the weeks pass, increasingly relaxed in front of the camera, constantly laughing and telling fond stories about the kids on his hospital ward. For Damen not to choose him at this point would be like kicking a whole sackful of a puppies.

Jokaste is still Jokaste. Her cattiness behind the scenes is matched only by her charm when one-on-one with Damen. She is witty and edged and lovely, and if she isn't inundated with offers after the season goes to air, Laurent will eat his headset, or possibly hire her himself.

Kashel has drifted through elimination after elimination by being genuinely nice to everyone and displaying a frank and unapologetic lust for Damen, which ranges from exchanging innuendo with Jokaste to appallingly explicit fantasies delivered into the camera lens during her individual sessions at the end of the day.

Nicaise, because he is still Nicaise, edits all of these into a five-minute monologue that comes out sounding like Anaïs Nin by way of Pornhub.

"We can't air any of this," says Laurent, who has been helplessly aroused since Kashel's dreamy description of riding Damen with her knees locked around his hips and his mouth dropping to worship her nipples. Laurent is not going to be able to look at Kashel again without hearing the word _nipples._

"I know," says Nicaise.

Two men, two women. And now, for the third-last episode, they're shooting a weekend getaway in the Southern Highlands, which is so heavily sponsored it's amazing that they've managed to shoehorn any flirting into the script around all the brand names.

Damen put his foot down and refused to have either his father or his brother on the show, despite the usual format involving a shameless and excruciating inquisition of the last few suitors by the bachelor's family.

"You can make it work without," he told Laurent. "It'll be a challenge."

Laurent looked at him flatly to let Damen know that he had been manipulating people since before he was old enough to drive, and was not going to be manipulated _back_ , and then said, "Fine."

Instead, they have Nikandros, who as the best friend is clearly here for love of Damen and no other reason. He probably thinks he is making bad television, with his dry comments and open disdain and how unimpressed he looks with absolutely everything. This is because he does not know how to make television.

Laurent does.

"I don't know what you want me to talk about," Nikandros says, gazing woodenly into the camera. "I've just met these people."

Laurent affixes his most pleasant smile to his face. "First impressions," he says.

Nikandros looks over at Damen and the four finalists, who are standing around a table in the winery's courtyard, carrying on a conversation while makeup attacks them for touch-ups. His gaze lingers on Kashel, openly appreciative, before he sighs.

"First impressions? I'm amazed he managed to keep the blond ratio as low as fifty percent."

" _Really_ ," says Laurent, sensing blood.

He manages to hook a few more gems out of Nikandros before Damen raises his voice and summons his friend to join the others at the wooden table. Ostensibly, they are tasting a series of canapé-size dishes along with the winery's current cellar range, and giving their opinion about food matching for the catering menu. During development meetings, half the room objected that this was going to come off as too fancy and pretentious for the show's key audience demographic. But they're at the tail end of the season now, and Laurent wants to remind everyone that Damen is not just a ball of implausibly noble sunshine with a distracting mouth. He has serious money. Anyone marrying him is marrying a lifestyle. Laurent knows how to build a fantasy brick by brick, and if one of those bricks consists of light gleaming off Riedel wine glasses and tiny servings of duck liver parfait, so be it.

In exchange for keeping Damen's family out of it, Laurent has acquired absolute personal control over Damen's wardrobe and styling for the remainder of the show. Today Damen's hair is half loose and half tugged back in a small ponytail ("Like an elf," Halvik said solemnly, which made Nicaise laugh so hard he choked.) and he is wearing a white shirt with three buttons open at the neck. He and Laurent had a ten-minute fight over one versus three buttons which Damen probably expected would end in a compromise of two.

It did not.

It was the most enjoyable ten minutes Laurent's had in weeks, and that was only partly because he won.

Now Laurent yells, "Cut," and the AD shoots him an exasperated look, because _technically_ Laurent is not a director.

"Damen," Laurent says. "Your sleeve has slipped down again. Fix it."

Damen shoves the white sleeve back above his elbow, baring a few more inches of toned brown forearm. "There," he says.

" _Roll it_ ," Laurent says, "you inept barbarian."

Damen's eyes dance. "Isn't that what I did?"

 _You are being baited_ , Laurent tells himself, and then decides he doesn't care. He strides forward, ignoring the aborted attempt by the closest wardrobe assistant to do the same thing, inserts himself between Damen and Erasmus and smooths out Damen's pitiful attempt at a neat cuff. He rolls it once, twice, letting it lie neatly. His nails scratch against the dark hair of Damen's arm. Damen's grin is level with Laurent's forehead; Laurent doesn't even have to look up, he can _feel_ it.

"You're here to say nice things about this wine. And to try this food," Laurent says coolly, finally lifting his eyes. "Do you think you can manage that, or do I have to feed you with my own fucking hand?"

Damen's mouth arranges itself into the beginnings of something unwise. Laurent, blocking his hand from the cameras with his body, pinches the skin of Damen's forearm. Hard.

"I think I'll cope," Damen says.

"Oh God," mutters Nikandros.

Satisfied, Laurent walks back to his position behind the cameras. He's composed his face by the time he turns around, wiping the small smile clear. He needs to keep his mind on task. This, what he and Damen are doing, no longer feels as clinical as a _bargain_ , but Laurent needs to remember that Damen's the one who used the word _alliance._ There isn't room here for anything else.

Filming resumes. Damen picks up a crispy wonton cup full of chilli prawn tartare, which looks almost comically tiny in his hands, and turns to Erasmus.

"Here, Erasmus, you like spicy food. Try this one."

Erasmus smiles at him. "You remembered."

Damen, because he is a fucking _dick,_ feeds it to Erasmus. The two of them make pleased sounds and Erasmus reaches for the bottle of riesling.

Laurent catches Jokaste looking at Damen's bare forearms--she turns away from the camera to cough delicately into her wrist, and uses the motion to send Laurent a wink--and then catches _Nikandros_ looking at Laurent as though he's memorising his face to describe to a police sketch artist. Laurent throws a sweet smile back, and has the satisfaction of seeing the man's expression waver. Nikandros can think whatever he wants of Laurent and his trashy, sensationalist, exploitative show. Laurent's gut has a sense for ratings, and his are going to be great.

That evening, Laurent--who has been awake for long enough that strange twinkles and shadows are flickering in his peripheral vision--is carrying his shoes down the corridor of the winery's guesthouse, heading for a hot shower and a soft bed. He passes the suite where Damen is staying and puts his fingers on the door handle, meaning to step inside and make sure Damen's head is in the right place leading into their final week of filming. The door, which was ajar, moves silently inwards a few inches with the pressure of his hand.

He hears: "So this is why you're still here."

"I'm here because my father--"

Nikandros interrupts with a disbelieving sound. "Damianos, no matter how good your intentions, this trite, staged bullshit isn't your style. I thought you'd be on my doorstep after two weeks, telling me you'd lost patience and run away from the whole thing. But it's all right. Now I get it."

A pause. Laurent tugs the door back again, leaving enough of a crack to listen through. His pulse has picked up. He remembers Damen, at the beginning. _It's so--staged._

Now Damen says, "It's not like that," but it sounds weak.

"Come on, Damen. How long have we known one another? Of course it's like that. Are you fucking him? Is that it?"

" _No_." Damen's vehemence is cold water on an emotion that Laurent doesn't have time to identify before it's quenched.

Good, Laurent thinks. _Good_. Laurent would have marched in there and twisted Damen's balls off if he was already fucking one of the suitors. And _Erasmus_ of all people. If it were any of the other three, they could probably sell the story as passion and exuberance if it ever got out that they'd fallen into bed before the finale, but Erasmus is sweet and innocent. That's his thing. That's what Damen wants.

Nikandros groans. "No, that'd be too easy. Bloody hell. You've actually got feelings for him."

Laurent, chest tight, steps away. He doesn't need to hear any more. That's what this is about, isn't it? Real feelings. Sometimes they're harder to sell than fake ones, but Laurent is very good at his job. It's all about how you put things together.

* * *

They're filming the penultimate episode when Erasmus throws a huge, shining spanner into the neat mechanism of Laurent's show.

This close to the end, the on-camera small talk is finally giving way to more serious discussions about compatibility. Damen is meant to spend this afternoon asking each suitor in turn where they see themselves in five years, and what they really _want_ out of life.

Erasmus is first; he sits on the edge of the couch, set at an angle to the leather armchair where Damen is enthroned, and twists his hands together. He hasn't looked this visibly nervous in a while. Damen has obviously noticed it too, because he bats a few sillier questions at Erasmus instead of plunging straight into the heavy topics. He has an instinct for people that makes Laurent wonder what kind of easily-swayed idiot Theomedes must be, not to see how wired Damen is for leadership.

When Damen poses the in-five-years question, Erasmus runs a tongue over his lips and colour fills his cheeks. He's the only suitor who hasn't yet kissed Damen at least once on camera, and Laurent approved of that on the basis that it maintained tension, but now would be a good time for a kiss if one is going to happen.

Laurent moves his eyes away from Damen's mouth.

Erasmus says, still blushing, "This is hard to say. I think you're incredible, Damen. Really. But--"

 _But??_ rings in Laurent's head like a struck bell.

"--but all of this has made me think about the kind of life I want, and I--I like my life the way it is. I like my job, and my apartment. In five years I want my life to look the same, only with someone else there, sharing it with me. Looking after me. And not caring about the smallness, because we have one another." Erasmus looks into Damen's face. His voice wavers. "Damen, it's not even the whole--millionaire businessman thing. It's just the kind of person you are. I think no matter what, life with you would be--large."

Laurent feels like a myopic man staring at a vision chart, as he tries to work out how Damen is going to react to all of this. Usually, Damen is so transparent. The stillness of his face now is unsettling.

Damen says gently, "You know you'll never be _that_ small, once you've been on this show."

Erasmus gives a cautious laugh. "No, I know. But in five years I doubt anyone will remember my name. I didn't come on this show to be famous. I honestly did want to find love; to find someone to share my life with." He takes a deep, visible breath. "And… I have."

Kallias has been watching from the back of the room, awaiting his own turn at the Future Talk later in the day. Now he walks in front of the cameras, sits down on the couch, and takes hold of Erasmus's hand.

There are a few seconds of absolute silence.

"Fuck _me_ ," says Nicaise, behind Laurent's shoulder.

Most of the crew are staring at the tableau in front of them. A few of them are looking at Laurent, and Laurent is… frozen. His muscles will not unlock. Even his mind stalls like an engine for a few seconds before giving a shudder and picking a direction.

The direction is anger. How is it that he didn't know this was happening? How was this kept from him? Laurent's job is to know things, to know them and _use_ them, and this is too large; missing it is unforgivable. The anticipation of failure circles in his stomach like a cold snake.

He manages to unfreeze when Jord sends him an inquiring hand signal, asking if they should stop filming; Laurent glares and motions the negative.

Kallias has not been to makeup, so he looks washed-out under the lights, though the pale olive of his fingers still contrasts against the creamy shade of Erasmus's skin. They look easy together, attractive and matched. Kallias's expression is defiant where Erasmus's is soft and wary.

Still, Kallias is the one who says, "We're sorry, Damen."

Finally, Damen's face shifts, and he calls up a smile: small, but not effortful. He says, "Are you honestly trying to apologise for falling in love?" and Laurent realises with a crash of inevitability that no matter how Damen personally feels about this development, he will protect these two with all of the bone-headed fierceness he possesses. He will buy out their contracts if the network sues for breach. He'll give fifty interviews defending their choice and proclaiming their romance to the heavens.

The thought should be exasperating, but it sweeps through Laurent like a wave of light, and some of the cold panic disappears with it.

"No," Erasmus says, soft. "I can't say I'm sorry about that."

He squeezes Kallias's hand, and Kallias looks at him like… actually, Laurent has never seen a person look at another person like that. A small piece of his foundation shakes just to see it.

"If we spin the promotions right," Nicaise says, "the ratings for this episode are going to be _insane_."

His voice is, thankfully, as acerbic as ever. Laurent firms up at the sound of it.

"Yes," he says. "Now shut up and let it happen."

* * *

Damen is sitting on the edge of the white satin bedspread. His hands are laced together; the left thumb is on top. Laurent, leaning against the safe harbour of the closed bedroom door, experiences a small moment of displacement in time.

"Halvik is probably hugging herself right now thinking about your genetic material," Laurent says. It's the kind of thought that he'd usually keep on the other side of his brain-to-mouth filter, but he's stopped caring what he says in front of Damen.

"What?"

"Nothing. Never mind." Laurent taps the heel of one shoe, thoughtful, against the door. "I can fix this."

Damen says, with a hint of anger, "If you're thinking--"

" _No_ ," Laurent says. "I can't--I'm not going to force them to stick around and pretend not to be in love. Any idiot could see that would backfire. No. I can work with this, but the problem is the story. We could… all right, I can frame it as head versus heart: Jokaste as the strategic choice, the smarter pick for someone in your professional position--"

"I don't want to marry Jokaste," Damen says.

Laurent's only a little surprised to hear Damen state it openly. He pauses for barely a breath and then hooks that information into the tapestry. "Kashel, then. There's something to be said for a dark horse victory; God knows this country knows how to get behind an underdog. We've never shown her as a serious contender, we haven't been building any sort of useful narrative around her, but now we've got an extra episode to play with, given we've just lost two suitors at once, so if we use it to flesh out their backgrounds--"

"Laurent," Damen says. "You're overthinking this."

"No, I am thinking _enough_."

But Laurent forces himself to slow down. He can strategise later, with Nicaise and the whiteboard. What Damen needs in order to get through this last-minute crisis is resilience of _emotion_ , not of thoughts. This shouldn't be difficult. Laurent has been coaching and bullying his cast through their damn feelings since day one. There is no reason at all why this should feel like rolling a boulder uphill through scalding steam.

He exhales. First things first.

"I'm sorry," he says, stiff. "It must have been disappointing. I know you have--feelings."

Damen's eyebrows move. "Feelings?"

"Wanted to marry him," Laurent snaps. "Or at least have a civil ceremony. Or hold out for marriage equality. Or whatever charming social statement you'd decided on. That part's not my business, is it? So, yes. Feelings."

Damen looks at him for a long time. Laurent's face feels like elastic that has been overstretched. He holds the tension and keeps holding it; he knows from experience what happens when this sensation collapses. Someone will be hurt. If he lets himself lash out at Damen now, he'll deal more than minor damage, and the kernel of fairness in Laurent is pointing out that Damen has been hurt enough today.

The least Laurent can do is make sure the person caught in the whiplash is himself, and that it happens out of sight.

"No, actually," Damen says. "I didn't feel that way about Erasmus. I don't."

"Nikandros said--"

"Nikandros knows what I like," Damen says.

After a moment: "I thought I did, too," Laurent says.

Damen unlaces his hands, rubs both of his palms on his thighs, then stands. There is an odd, teasing note to his voice. "What do I like?"

Laurent says, dryly: "Blondes."

Damen laughs and comes closer, across the room. He says, "And?"

"People who make you laugh," Laurent says. The elastic feeling has moved. It formed a brief stranglehold on his throat and is now weaving itself, with painful squeezes, between his ribs. He refuses to move. Damen is standing directly in front of him.

"And people who push me around a little," Damen says. "Which I didn't know about myself, until recently."

His face is very close to Laurent's now. He is blocking the light; his eyes are in shadow. Laurent's breath is coming quick and tight.

"This isn't real," Laurent says. "Nothing here is--"

Damen kisses him, hard enough that Laurent's lips are pressed against his teeth. The jab of pain is like sand in an oyster's shell, a focal point for other feelings to gather around and start to form a wondrous shape. Laurent can feel his own pulse throb into that focus, and then throb again, his mind gone blank as if all the blood has fled to his lips, before Damen pulls away. Laurent discovers that his fingers have grabbed hold of Damen's sleeves, bunching the fabric at each elbow. Holding him in place.

Damen says, low, "You're real. I think you are the most real thing on this set."

At that, a barrier cracks within Laurent, letting out the first trickles that precede a flood. There is something terrifying in how certain Damen is; in the fact that Damen can look at Laurent--who has not felt real since his brother died, who has trouble holding himself within the boundaries of his own skin--and say that. Like it's nothing. Like it's true.

Damen, with his grounding hands now cupping Laurent's face.

Laurent holds himself absolutely still as Damen leans in again. This time the kiss is deep and overwhelming. Laurent is braced for tension but he feels instead an exhilarating heat rising in his body and a coil of something darker, more thrilling, as Damen pushes him back against the door. A sound, half breath and half surprise, emerges from his mouth, where Damen kisses it into nothing. This, this is the flood.

Damen releases his soft grasp on Laurent's jaw. Instead he tugs at Laurent's shirt, untucking it from trousers to touch skin. Laurent can't keep in a rasping, shuddering breath as Damen's palm skates up between his shoulder blades, then down again, settling in the small of Laurent's back and using the leverage to pull Laurent flush against his body. Laurent lets himself rub for a long, glorious moment against Damen's leg, and then concentrates on the kiss again.

When his hands start to tingle, he lifts them and gets them in Damen's loose hair, raking and tugging, venting weeks of frustration and stress. He bites Damen's lip: _that's_ for Damen's laugh, and Damen's bare arms, and the longing that Laurent has been grinding into nothing every day through force of will.

"God, Laurent," Damen murmurs, and pulls away a little.

Laurent's chest is heaving. His hands drop to his sides. He can't think of a single thing to say.

Damen's expression softens, warms. He drops a slow kiss on Laurent's temple. He undoes Laurent's shirt, the top three buttons, and brushes his fingers lightly over Laurent's nipple. His tongue slides gently over Laurent's lower lip. His other hand moves--fingers tangling in Laurent's--lifting Laurent's hand--keeping eye contact as he opens his mouth over the pulse at the wrist. Then bends his head, kissing Laurent's neck.

If Laurent had thought this was distracting when their motions were frantic, he can't think at _all_ while Damen is being this gentle with him. He can barely stay balanced on his feet. His thoughts keep whirring, trying to gather themselves, but each light, searing kiss or caress scatters them again like dissipating mist. Damen is touching Laurent like he's precious, like he's worth everything, worth throwing away a lifetime's work and a family's legacy.

Laurent's chest seizes. A chill cuts through the haze of pleasure as tabloid headlines scroll inescapably through his mind. _Bachelor Nails Producer. Sordid Scenes Behind Camera._

"Stop," he says.

Damen stops at once. He pulls away again. Laurent pushes Damen back another metre, both of his hands applying insistent pressure to Damen's chest. He doesn't let himself prolong the touch, even though every cell is crying out to keep his palm flat there until he can feel the speed of Damen's heart: the proof that Laurent is wanted.

Because _want_ is what's painted across Damen's face, naked and burning. Laurent closes his eyes at the sight of it, masters himself, and then opens them again.

"We can't," he says.

"Laurent--"

"No," Laurent says, wielding the word like a whip. "Listen to me, Damen. We said we'd finish this. You need to see it through. For your company, for _my_ company to ever exist… we have to finish the show. We have to remember--what we want."

Damen's brow is creased. But, thank God, he doesn't protest that what they're doing now wouldn't get in the way, or that it wouldn't change anything. Laurent feels so raw and exposed, already, that it will take him the rest of the night to put himself together. If he slept with Damen now he would be irreparable.

Damen just looks down into Laurent's face. In his gaze is the same curious intensity that's been there all along--for weeks, for months. He nods. He folds Laurent in his arms again, loosely enough that Laurent could resist.

Laurent doesn't. He lets himself have this one more thing, the sweetness of it, the way it feels to be held. His face fills with heat, but his eyes are entirely dry.

The last kiss Damen steals is a surprise, hot and quick. Then Damen sighs and hunches his shoulders, burying his face in the junction of Laurent's neck and shoulder.

Laurent, uncertain, lifts a hand to stroke again through Damen's hair. Now that this is no longer building to anything, it feels safer. But still not _safe_. His body is ringing with thwarted desire so intense it's vertiginous, like standing on a cliff above a long drop through open air to razor reefs below.

"I know what I want," Damen says. He sounds resigned.

Laurent says, "Then prove it."

* * *

The clouds that threatened rain earlier in the day have subsided, bunching themselves cosily near the horizon as though they're aware that what Laurent needs more than anything else is a good sunset to serve as a backdrop. Laurent sits in the grass near the edge of the headland, looking down onto the dark sand of the beach. The water shades abruptly from turquoise to teal a few hundred metres offshore, a meandering divide that becomes less and less distinct as the sun creeps down.

Part of the reason Laurent has been so strict with the show's budget is that he's been determined, all along, to produce a finale that is _truly_ spectacular. Sunsets over the ocean aren't exactly easy to come by, on Australia's east coast, and it's an irony of geography that the nearest west coast belongs to another country entirely.

But that makes it better, Laurent thinks, gazing out over the vista of Te Henga. Crossing the sea. The romance of destination.

"I don't suppose you'd be prepared to give us a hint," says a voice from behind him.

"And spoil your authentic, on-camera emotional response?" Laurent shoots back. "Please, Jokaste."

Jokaste steps up next to him; Laurent has to tilt his head to take her in. Her hair is braided back, one plait forming a headband and the others looped intricately into a knot at the back of her head. She's wearing a long flowing dress of pale lavender, just a shade away from overtly bridal, and it somehow manages to accentuate the porcelain of her skin instead of calling out unpleasant pink or yellow tones.

"You do _know_ who he's going to choose, don't you?" she says.

"Of course," Laurent lies, cool and easy.

"Don't worry. I've got my most photogenic sobbing face all lined up, for if I lose."

"Broken hearts are good television," says Laurent.

Jokaste flicks her blue gaze over him and then out to sea, shading her eyes.

"Lucky we're not the type to give away our hearts that easily," she says.

Laurent grips his own wrist tightly enough that his skin creases. "Yes."

Jokaste kicks a twig over the edge of the headland with her sandalled, nail-painted foot, and then leaves him alone. Laurent looks around and searches the bustle of set-up until he sees Kashel, nodding and smiling, one of Halvik's maternal arms wrapped around her shoulders. She's wearing a jacket over her dress, which is dark red and clings beautifully to her body. Laurent has been waiting for Damen to come and complain that putting them next to one another, dressed like that, perpetuates some kind of virgin/whore, angel/demon dichotomy; he'd be right, if it weren't for the fact that nobody could mistake Jokaste for an angel by now.

Oh, yes, this finale will be visually stunning. But after all Laurent's work fighting the network, swearing up and down that this season would be fresh and original if they let him have his groundbreaking bisexual bachelor, it all comes down--yet again--to a choice between two beautiful women.

It's not that Laurent is unhappy with the show up to this point. He's poured everything he could into it. It's manipulative, tightly edited, funny and dramatic, and they've got the bonus shock reveal of a romance between two of the audience-favourite suitors. Now he just has to hold on to the ratings, get Damen safely engaged, and then he'll be done.

Over the various seasons, the show's format has shifted back and forth between the final choice being made sequentially--with the loser being farewelled before the winner arrives--and an on-camera choice. The former is slightly classier; the latter has more opportunity for drama. Either way, Jokaste was right: the producer usually knows.

Damen hasn't told Laurent his decision. And Laurent has not allowed himself to go up to Damen and ask outright. Despite what Damen said about Jokaste, he's not been showing Kashel anything more than his usual friendliness, and maybe he'll make the strategic choice after all.

Laurent knows where Jokaste herself stands, but Kashel is more of a wild card. She seems to genuinely want to win, in a low-key way--there's no doubting she wants _Damen_ \--and she's not shown any signs of emotional volatility, but they've been surprised before. Nicaise has fifty dollars on her being a surprise hair-puller.

Laurent trusts his crew. They'll know what to do, no matter what happens.

They've filmed all of the lead-up. Now it comes down to ten minutes beneath an erected arch of white wood and red roses.

Cameras rolling, Damen stands between Jokaste and Kashel; he holds out his hands, one to each side, and both of them reach out to take his. It's a gorgeous shot. Laurent lifts his hand, signalling Damen to wait, while the breeze stirs the women's skirts and the clouds glow a romantic shade of pink.

"Next season," Nicaise murmurs. "The polygamous bachelor! _That'_ ll be a good twist."

Laurent, grateful, presses his lips together to keep the laugh in. _Now move on,_ he tells himself. _Get it over with._

He drops his hand.

Damen looks from one woman to the other. "Jokaste. Kashel. I've enjoyed getting to know you, over the past few months. But I've made my decision. I can't marry either of you."

The line is _I can only marry one of you_. It takes Laurent a few seconds to realise that Damen has gone off-script.

"If I pretended to love either of you in that way, I would be lying. It wouldn't be fair," Damen continues. "But… I made an agreement that I would stand here today and choose the person I want to spend my life with. And there is someone here who fits that description." He looks off camera, seeking, and his eyes find Laurent.

Laurent's heart begins to build towards a steady, thunderous racket. Damen's voice is muffled through it, going on and on about some person whom Laurent is frankly not sure exists. Damen explains that he's come to adore this person's dedication; the integrity he pretends not to have; the heart he _claims_ not to have. Then Damen stops talking, and waits. He's dropped Jokaste's hand, and Kashel's. Neither of them look particularly upset.

"What the hell are you doing?" Laurent says.

"Proving what I want," Damen says.

For a moment, Laurent thinks that the sheer force of his tangled emotion has gotten into his neck muscles and he's developed a violent twitch. Or that he is having a strange dream, and he's rolled over and caught his hair on something, and any moment now he will wake up.

And then, with a final firm yank, Laurent's headset comes entirely off his head, and this is when Laurent realises that he is the victim of a conspiracy. Nicaise has Laurent's headset now tucked under one arm. He is straightening Laurent's collar and batting dust off his trousers.

"Passable," Nicaise says, in obvious imitation of Laurent himself.

"Traitor," says Laurent.

Nicaise smirks and gives Laurent a physical shove, hard enough that Laurent finds himself within frame. He doesn't step back; he's damned if he's going to sneak or dart off camera, or do anything to suggest that this is a disaster. On with the show.

The women have both taken a step back as though choreographed, which Laurent is now beginning to suspect this _fucking is_. Jokaste has a hand in front of her mouth; she drops it to gaze right into the camera.

"Ladies and gentlemen at home," she says, with a stab at poise that's partially lost in laughter. "Our _darling_ producer, Laurent de Vere."

Laurent puts his shoulders back and takes the two steps to stand next to Damen. He can imagine how they must look framed against the setting sun: Damen groomed to within an inch of his life and Laurent, without proper costuming or makeup, probably looking like an apricot-tinged ghost. They'll have to do something about that in post-production, whispers an irrepressible part of Laurent's mind.

"I came on this show for a few reasons," Damen says. "I don't think it's a secret that I wanted to--prove some things about myself, to the world. But here's what I've learned: _I don't care_. The only people I care about proving myself to are right here. Myself. And you."

Laurent runs his tongue around his mouth. His tone is impeccable when he says: "And you think I want you more than I want a proper ending for my show?

That's all he's prepared to say on camera. He knows Damen will hear the meaning: _more than I want to hold on to my career?_

Damen says, "Laurent. You're a beautiful, ruthless, insanely clever person. I think you are _more_ than capable of having both."

A soft heat catches in Laurent's throat. Damen reaches out and takes his hand, and Laurent allows it. It would look bad, he thinks. To pull away.

"You can think your way through any kind of fight," Damen says. "And if there's one coming, then it'll be a challenge. I thought you liked those."

"Certainly I do. Why else would I cast such an intractable bachelor?" Laurent says. That softness is leaking into his voice now, and he can't stop it. "You've been nothing but trouble since I first set eyes on you."

Damen says, more quietly, "If you really don't want this, if you don't feel the same way, you can tell me. But if it's just that you're afraid, I'm telling you: you don't have to be."

Laurent can think of five ways that his uncle might try to twist this against him. He had such a clear _plan_. Get through this season. Get free. He's tired of fighting.

But he thinks of the ease with which Damen has just tossed aside his own priorities--the sheer stubborn _bravery_ of it.

Who is Laurent proving himself to?

Is he prepared to let this go, just to make things easier for himself?

Laurent lifts his chin. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, and feels his lips quirk.

"Please," he says. "You're not that frightening, Damianos."

What he means is: _I'm up for fighting a little longer, if you'll do it with me._

Damen's smile widens. "Besides, this looks like a perfectly reasonable ending to me. I told you I was open to love, and you told me you'd help me find it. And you did."

Dimly, Laurent hears Nicaise snap, "L-word! _L-word!_ Get camera C tighter on them, are you a fucking moron?" which is nice because Laurent turning away from Damen to produce his own happy ending would probably ruin the entire shot.

"Oh," Laurent hears himself say.

Damen shifts his weight, takes a breath, and goes down on one knee.

Laurent feels himself turn a furious, radiant pink.

"Don't you-- _dare,_ " he says, only just managing to swallow the expletive, and hauls Damen up again by the lapels of his hideously expensive, courtesy-of-the-sponsors suit jacket.

"I'm pretty sure I'm meant to put a ring on someone's finger," Damen says. His smile is incredible; it's like the sun has reversed its dive beneath the horizon, or at least is sticking around to enjoy the spectacle like everyone else. "I mean, I think that was in my contract. And you keep telling me--"

Laurent doesn't let him finish. He still has a good grip on Damen's lapels. He pulls Damen down and finds his mouth, letting the kiss start sweetly and then turn as hungry and wild and dizzyingly happy as he feels.

After a moment, Damen's hands slide down to Laurent's ass, pulling him in, shameless and probably not suitable for network decency standards.

They can edit that out later, Laurent thinks.

* * *

Laurent bends his legs, pulling his ankles out of direct sunlight and back into the shade of the poolside umbrella. He's had sunburned feet once in his life, and never plans to repeat it. He throws an annoyed glance at Damen, who is stretched out on the adjacent lounge chair. Damen has spent the last three days turning steadily browner while being very lax about sunscreen.

The villa they've rented on the west coast of Santorini has its own pool as well as its own tiny courtyard complete with mosaic floor and fountain. Sunshine off white stone and white paint makes it feel overbright and otherworldly during the day, shimmering with heat and light. Laurent tried for an hour this morning to go over his notes on the Theran eruption and the formation of the caldera, but the heat snuck into his brain, and he can't make himself mind. He feels looser, and happier, than he ever imagined he could.

The ratings for the show's finale were unprecedented. With the story of Erasmus and Kallias under their belts, the finale was marketed as an even _more_ shocking twist, and Laurent and Damen have become the new faces of unexpected romance. They've been asked to present at the Logies, and to appear on every morning show in the country.

Laurent has never been a celebrity in his own right, nor wanted to. He's… adjusting.

The most obvious benefit is that Damen's stock in the eyes of his PR department has shot way, way up, and his father has--after a long talk with both Damen and Laurent, which left Laurent feeling like he'd run a marathon--agreed that Damen will assume control of the company as planned. Theomedes looked like a man who'd already planned the first three years of his luxury retirement and had one impatient foot out the door; he was ready to throw Damen the reins immediately.

 _Damen_ promptly turned around and declared that he was leaving the company in the care of his brother Kastor for six months, extending the leave of absence he'd taken to come on the show.

"To do what?" Theomedes demanded.

"This and that," said Damen, eyes dancing at Laurent. "Expand my horizons. Travel."

Laurent has only met Kastor once. He has a feeling that Damen's decision will come back to bite them later, but right now he can't bring himself to care too much if it means that Damen is here, with him, holding his hand in airports and telling him stories over lunches of bread and olive oil and fava and sun-wilted tomatoes, and kissing Laurent in the night breezes that sweep gladly through the open doors of the villa.

Tomorrow, filming begins in Fira for Laurent's new show.

Two of Laurent's major potential investors pulled out, after the season went to air. They cited various vague reasons but Laurent knew what they meant: that Laurent's uncle had managed to leverage the finale against Laurent, frame it as his unfortunate, inexperienced nephew being selfish; impetuous; unstable and untrustworthy.

Laurent's new network, however, looked at the ratings. They agreed to take the chance on his show.

And Laurent has another investor, now, even though he's been arguing about this with the investor in question for at least six months. And also for the last twenty minutes that they have been lounging here, poolside.

"I should make you take all the money back," he says now.

"What," Damen says, "I can't invest in my own fiancé's company?"

"Don't call me that," Laurent says, automatic.

Damen lifts his hand, and looks pointedly at Laurent's. The ring that had been donated to the show was some enormous, hideous diamond, which Laurent wore for publicity photos and promptly returned to the sponsor. Instead, he wears a plain gold band, and Damen has a matching one. They look like wedding bands, but for the hand they wear them on.

"Trappings," Laurent says, blithely insincere. "We're not engaged. You can't get engaged before you start dating, that's absurd."

"I seem to remember that's what _I_ told someone when they approached me about being on a reality show."

Laurent throws a towel, with precision, at Damen's face.

Damen sets the towel aside and climbs off his lounge chair. He says, grinning, "Let's call it business. I expect a good return on my investment."

"Is that so," says Laurent.

"I'll settle for dividends, in the meantime."

Damen bends down over Laurent and kisses him with sun-chapped lips. Laurent hooks a finger in Damen's shirt and tries to drag him down further, but Damen pulls away and takes off his shirt, instead, ready to dive into the pool.

Laurent waits until Damen is down to just a clinging pair of boardshorts, and then snaps a picture on his phone. After a moment's thought he sends the picture to Jokaste.

 _just sharing the wealth_ , he adds.

Her answer comes almost at once. _just showing off, you mean._

It's late evening in Sydney. Jokaste is probably out somewhere, being sharp and sparkling. She's already been approached to do Dancing with the Stars, has booked a small part on a new TV drama, and appears near-weekly in gossip magazines, paired with various radio personalities and football players.

Three dots resolve themselves into another message.

_btw I had coffee with kashel yesterday. do you know who she's seeing??_

_yes_ , laurent says.

_you're bluffing._

_he IS damen's best friend_ , Laurent points out.

_stop being a smug asshole and go peel your bf out of those shorts._

Damen is in the pool by now, swimming aimless half-laps. Laurent watches him, feeling a pleasant heat of anticipation at the thought. Damen swims up to the edge and rests his elbows there; water gleams on the muscles of his arms and plasters his hair to his neck in thick strands. He sweeps a palm through the water, making waves, in an obvious threat.

"I will fucking destroy you," Laurent says. He picks up his phone, to serve as a shield of sorts--their phones are sacred and not to be endangered--then blinks as it starts to vibrate in his hand.

"What is it?" Damen says.

Laurent leans forward and holds out the phone so that Damen can see the name on the screen.

Damen mimes throwing it into the pool, and Laurent smiles. He leans back in his lounge chair. The phone keeps buzzing in his hands. After a moment, he picks up.

"Hello, uncle," he says.

"Laurent," his uncle says. "I'm pleasantly surprised. I thought you'd be _buried_ in work, not taking calls from family."

"I can always make time for you," Laurent says.

"Producing a new format from scratch is a lot more work than taking over an existing show. You must be feeling stretched."

"It's kind of you to worry," Laurent says, "but there's really no need. After all, I learned from the best."

Since Laurent was seventeen, he and his uncle have spoken in code; everything they say aloud to one another, every email or text, is benign and deniable. Everything happens beneath the surface. Laurent imagines how pleased his uncle would be to report to his friends in the industry that he'd spoken to Laurent and the poor boy had sounded so _stressed_ , and admitted to being in over his head.

He'll probably report it anyway. At least it he'll know it to be a lie.

"I have to say it is a little disappointing, Laurent, that you were so desperate for capital you felt the need to attach yourself to the nearest bank account on legs. It doesn't _look_ good, you must see that. I'm concerned that people won't take this little show of yours seriously."

Laurent lets himself smile. He enjoys arguing this topic with Damen himself, but he won't let anyone else question it. And if his uncle's skirting around calling Laurent a whore, he must be running low on other ammunition.

He could come back with the obvious answer that it's hardly any better than everyone thinking he's no more than his uncle's pet project. But it's _too_ obvious to bother saying aloud.

"I think I'll let the finished product speak for itself," he says. "Besides, there are some benefits. Now that everyone knows I'm off the market, there are far fewer people trying to wrangle an AD job by making indecent offers. I know how people gossip in this industry. I wouldn't want anyone to think that I make my personnel decisions in bed."

That is met with silence. Laurent meets Damen's eyes and makes a small face, and Damen starts to laugh.

Nicaise will be having lunch with Aimeric this week. An olive branch, of sorts, and perhaps an offer. Nicaise is far too untrusting to let Aimeric get away with anything; if they can avoid strangling one another in a Potts Point restaurant, Laurent's told Nicaise to extend the hand anyway. Responsibility ends where Laurent decides it ends.

"I'll be following your project with great interest," his uncle says, finally.

Laurent has friends, money, and manpower. He's not struggling just to maintain his footholds any more. This year, they're going on the offensive; if you're going to fight, you might as well do it from a position of strength. He and Damen have two companies between them, and all the influence that comes with a narrative that's grown bigger than them both. Damen is made for it, born to it, expanding and inhabiting the largeness of his life. And Laurent… well, Damen was right. Laurent enjoys a challenge, if he gets to set the terms.

"I'm sure you will," he says pleasantly, and hangs up.

He puts his phone on the table and pulls off his own shirt. Damen sends an inviting splash in his direction, droplets prickling coolly at his ankles.

Laurent dives in to join Damen, and the water folds over him like a second skin.


End file.
